


The Blue Butterfly

by raiyana



Series: Prince of Greenwood [11]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Inspired by Fanart, Mirkwood, Stream of Consciousness, the darkening of the trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2017-11-29
Packaged: 2019-02-08 12:10:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12864243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Mirkwood encroaches





	The Blue Butterfly

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this art](https://gandalfwho.tumblr.com/post/168019373352/i-still-cant-draw-a-natural-setting-for-shit), by @gandalfwho on tumblr

The blue butterflies were the first to go, Thranduil noted, until his mother’s favourites could be found only in very the top of a few groves of their favourite maples. With the butterflies, some of the birds disappeared, until he barely remembered the last time he had seen and Eilinel south of the River. The elk remained, of course, as did the Spirit of the Hunt - the White Stag - that was sacred to all who called the Great Forest home. Once, it had been a maia, he had learned, one which had taken the shape of the stag and taught the Nandor to hunt. 

When they first came here, with Oropher’s pale locks nearly shining beneath the shady boughs, the Nandor had believed him sent by the Spirit of the Hunt - Thranduil would not discount the notion, having spent far too many years beneath the enchanted branches of his Realm to believe that there might not be a kernel of truth in their belief. Had they not gone east because of a vision? Who could say whether the vision had been sent by the Valar, or by a Stag-shaped Maia wanting... well, Thranduil had little idea what the Stag wanted, but it seemed content with his rule and Oropher’s before him. He was not naive enough to believe that anyone else could have managed to unite the oft-disagreeing tribes of Nandorin under one banner, and if the Stag’s purpose was to protect the Silvans of the Woodland, then ensuring cohesive leadership might have been one of its plans. 

Walking among the trees, he tried to hold back the darkness, felt the rot spreading through trunks and branches and knew that whatever was spurring it on could only be dammed for a time, but never truly stamped out. Something had taken root in the charred remains of their ancient home, something he could not banish from this land that had been given into his keeping. 

Centuries passed, but Thranduil knew he was losing the struggle, Mirkwood - the Men had named it thus, and it was apt, for he felt besmirched by the encroaching darkness, as though part of himself was tainted with it, trying to sever the connection he still held to the Forest that struggled within the grasp of its creeper vines. 

With a shudder, Thranduil closed his blue eyes. 

“Move everyone north of the River,” he ordered, “we will patrol the southern reaches, but the first priority of the Guard is the safety of our people.”

 

The butterfly - its brilliant blue wings catching a rare glimmer of sunlight - landed delicately on the Sceptre of Maplewood that symbolised his rule. The wings beat a few times, before the butterfly flew off once more, leaving the Elvenking alone on the promontory that overlooked his Realm. Following the small speck of colour with his eyes, Thraduil’s keen gaze found a flicker of white in the low light of dusk.

The Stag nodded its pale head, the large crown of antlers dipping slowly.

Thranduil returned the nod. 

“I will keep them safe,” he swore, though there was no one to hear his promise.


End file.
